


chocolate

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: hc bingo 2016 [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 12:57:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7758694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for hc bingo prompt 'comfort food/item'. On holiday, seaside, ramble-y fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	chocolate

**Author's Note:**

> this one's not mean about Aramis :)

Aramis looks up from Louis, from listening to him talking about dolphins, someone’s hand touching his shoulder. It’s Porthos, and Aramis smiles, stopping walking. Louis stops, too, holding tight to Aramis’ hand. They sink a little into the wet sand, and the waves wash over their feet, making Louis giggle and hop. Porthos has to touch Aramis’ shoulder again, to get his attention. 

“Mm?” Aramis asks, reaching up with his free hand, stroking Porthos’ sun-hot cheek. 

“I’m gonna head back to the house,” Porthos says. 

Aramis frowns and opens his mouth to ask why, but Porthos gives a slight shake of his head, eyes on Louis, so Aramis closes his mouth again. Porthos goes back the way they’ve come, walking higher up the beach, weaving his way through the sporadic sun-bathers. Louis loses his footing, and Aramis catches him, distracted. When he looks back up, Porthos has disappeared, taking the path through the fields instead of walking the rest of the way on the sand. 

“Everyone’s getting far ahead, Papa,” Louis says. 

“We can’t have that, can we? Come on, we’ll catch them,” Aramis says. 

They set off running, Louis’ peels of happy laughter around them. Louis runs ahead, when they catch up, letting go Aramis’ hand. Aramis falls into step with Athos, listening to him and Sylvie debate whether you need salt with a boiled egg’s yolk or not.

“You should eat less salt, Ath, your new meds are gonna fuck with your blood pressure,,” Aramis tells Athos. 

“Oh shut up,” Athos grumbles, slinging an arm over Aramis’ shoulders for a moment, tugging him slightly off balance. “Where’s your better half? He vanished.”

“Went home. Don’t know why,” Aramis says.

“I see,” Athos says. 

“You know something,” Aramis says. 

“Well, I know lots of things,” Athos says, grinning. “Alright, alright, don’t hit me. I don’t know anything about Porthos. I was just wondering if I could follow suit.”

“No you could not,” Sylvie says, linking their arms. “You’re coming on this picnic, and then you are going swimming, and you are going to try and enjoy yourself.”

“Suncream,” Aramis says. 

“What?” Sylvie asks. 

“I knew I forgot something. That’s what it is. How much further is this natural pool of rocks we’re headed for?”

“Ten minutes,” Anne says, coming up on his other side. “Are you watching Lou, or am I?”

“Right, me,” Aramis says, and searches out his son. 

He sits with Louis at lunch, and when they’ve eaten he lies down, Louis on his chest, and covers them in a light scarf, telling quiet stories until Louis falls asleep. He’s still so little, only two, and Aramis stays under there with him for a while, making the most of having him close. He ends up napping himself, and when he wakes, Louis’ been shifted into Anne’s arms. Sylvie and Constance are in their swimming costumes, sitting on a rock doing each other’s suncream, Athos is sprawled at Aramis’ side. 

“d’Artagnan’s coming up tonight,” Athos says. “He texted me, he tied up that case so he’s free now.”

“He only missed a day. That’s good. He needs a holiday,” Aramis says. “Look, I’m going to go back, check on Pip. I don’t know why he went, I want to make sure he’s okay.”

“Alright. I’ll tell the others,” Athos says. 

“Suncream,” Aramis says. 

Sylvie overhears him and tosses him the bottle she’s been using. Aramis gets a good amount in his hand and starts covering every inch of Athos in it. Athos yelps, but submits with only a bit of grumbling. Probably remembering last year, when he turned into a lobster. Aramis leaves smudges of white on Athos’ pale skin, just because. He kisses Louis’ curls, then starts the long walk back. 

The house is the same one they all rent every year, a big detached converted farm, set on the cliff right above the beach. There’s a conservatory at the back, all glass, open to the sea view with doors all along. Aramis expects to find Porthos in there, it being Porthos’ favourite spot, so he walks the length of the beach and up the cliff-path, coming to the house from the back. There’s no one in the conservatory, though, and the doors are shut. He has to walk around to the front of the house. 

The door’s unlocked, they never lock it when there’s someone in there. Aramis pushes it open, into the small entry-way with all their shoes and boots, Louis’ wet-suit from last night hung there to dry, raincoats, jackets. Aramis drops his flip-flops and goes through to the kitchen, calling out a greeting. Porthos isn’t there, either. It’s a big room, with a table that’s large enough to fit them all. There’s the Aga, the familiar plait of garlic Porthos hangs there for a rustic look, the remains of their picnic prep scattered around, the dishwasher going. 

Aramis tries their bedroom, next. Up at the top of the house, because it’s quietest and Aramis is a light sleeper, with skyligh set in the roof, stretching all the way down to two window seats. Porthos likes to sit there, looking at the sea, but he’s not there now. Aramis sighs and calls out again, but gets no reply. He pokes his head into Athos and Sylvie’s room on his way to check the rest of the downstairs, knowing Porthos sometimes likes to curl up in Athos’ space, with the stuffed elephant Athos brings along. 

He locates Porthos down in the livingroom. The curtains are still drawn from last night, and the debris of wine, snacks, and card games is lying around. Porthos is curled up on the sofa, back to the room. Aramis goes to sit in the crook of his knees, and Porthos presses a foot to Aramis in greeting. Aramis settles a hand on Porthos’ thigh, and waits for an explanation. 

“My belly hurts,” Porthos mumbles. “Feel really sick.”

“You should have said something. You could have stayed in bed,” Aramis says, rubbing Porthos’ stomach then just resting his hand there. 

The muscles are tight and a little bit trembly. Porthos is all muscle, at the moment, training for a triathlon he’s being sponsored for. Aramis loves it when Porthos goes on a fitness kick, because the extra exercise makes Porthos lazy and hedonistic at home, chasing pleasure idly. Which means tugging Aramis into cuddles and snuggling with him and nuzzling close. And sex. Aramis likes lazy sex with a sweaty, tired-out Porthos, demanding and pleased with himself and happy. 

“‘S’just cramps,” Porthos says. “Walking was supposed to help. Usually just ignore it.”

“Do you have your period?” 

“Yeah. Came this morning.”

“Do you have what you need? I can pop to the shop, if not.”

“I brought stuff. Might need to go in a few days, but I’m good for the moment.”

“Did you bring chocolate, though?” Aramis asks. 

“No. Feel too sick for it right now.”

“Because of the cramps? Or because you hate this?”

“Hate this.”

Aramis gets him a blanket, and Athos’ stuffed elephant, and a bottle of water. Then he sits again, sliding under Porthos’ head, rubbing his back and shoulders. He can feel the outline of Porthos’ binder. He wants to get Porthos out of it, but knows that won’t help right now. Instead, he pushes up Porthos’ t-shirt and works his hand under the binder at the front, pulling until Porthos can get a few deep breaths. 

“Thanks,” Porthos murmurs. 

“Mm. Get some rest,” Aramis says, putting his feet up and finding the remote.

He puts the TV on and massages Porthos’ muscles with one hand, absently watching some ITV crime thing. His phone buzzes, Athos asking after Porthos. Aramis sends a WhatsApp with a picture of Porthos curled around the elephant, and gets a photo of Louis in the water in return. He spends the afternoon watching TV, and chattering with Athos, looking at pictures of Louis. He smiles when he gets a photo of Louis, tuckered out in Sylvie’s arms, head resting on her shoulder, gazing at Athos’ camera. The caption reads ‘hi Daddy on our way back nap time’. 

Porthos wakes up, snorting and shifting, and grumbles a bit. He sits up, hair stuck to his head on one side, fluffed up where Aramis has been running his fingers through it on the other. He blinks wearily at Aramis, then grimaces and pulls his shirt off. Aramis helps him out of the binder and Porthos lies face-down, waiting. Aramis rubs his back where it aches after the binder. They’re like that when the others get back. 

“Papa,” Louis says, holding out his arms. 

Aramis takes him and he’s sun-warmed and pliant, sighing against Aramis’ neck, head heavy. 

“He likes napping on you,” Anne says, smiling. 

“Seems to be a theme today,” Aramis says. 

Porthos pinches his thigh for that. Aramis realises he’s stuck face first in the sofa, without his shirt on. Unless he wants to flash everyone. Aramis settles Louis against himself, then holds the blanket around Porthos so he can get his shirt back on and sit up. Constance comes in holding up a bottle of gin, and she and Anne and Constance retreat to the conservatory. Athos comes and sits the other side of Porthos. 

“How are you feeling?” Athos asks. 

“Cramps,” Porthos says. “Better, though. Look, no binder.”

“I had salt on my egg yolk,” Athos says. “I’m in trouble.”

Porthos laughs and wraps Athos in a hug. Athos isn’t exactly tiny, but he pretty much vanishes when Porthos cuddles him like that, burying himself in Porthos. Aramis turns the TV off. 

“It’s okay,” Porthos says. “Aramis is gonna go get me chocolate, so he can get you something healthy and yummy.”

“There’s no such thing,” Athos says. 

“Strawberries? Or, um, almonds. Salmon. Watermelon! Get us watermelon and salmon, ‘mis, we can be proper middle class.”

“I didn’t know I was getting anything,” Aramis says. “I have no idea where my wallet is.”

“Take Athos’,” Porthos says. 

Athos and Aramis exchanged an amused look and decide as one, without consultation, that they’re indulging Porthos today. Athos gets up and pulls out his wallet, passing it over, and Aramis goes to find his shoes and car keys. 

When he gets back, the women are in the kitchen pouring over take-away menus, Constance on the phone to d’Artagnan passing on an order, but Athos and Porthos are nowhere in sight. Aramis unpacks the watermelon, blueberries, ice cream and salmon, then looks around. 

“They’re up in your room,” Sylvie says, smiling. “Tell Ath we’re getting him something that’s good for him.”

“Punishment for the egg?” Aramis asks. 

“I’m not his mother, or his dietician, or his doctor,” Sylvie says. “He can eat whatever he likes. He asked me to look for something low in fats and salt, so I have done as he asked.”

Aramis escapes upstairs. Porthos is curled on the bed, over the covers, Athos is sat in the window seat. Porthos has a hand between his thighs, and his face is scrunched up in discomfort. 

“He is, apparently, terribly sensitive,” Athos says, dryly. “He tried to have a wank, but it didn’t go well, so he came downstairs and fetched me. Not sure what he expects me to do, exactly.”

“Commiserate,” Porthos mutters. 

“I’m ace, and I don’t wank,” Athos says. 

“Yeah, but you have misbehaving genitals,” Porthos says. 

Athos buries his face in his hands and laughs and laughs.

“I… think this might be a trans people conversation?” Aramis says. 

“No, it’s a Porthos conversation,” Athos says, huffing with laughter. “He’s always talked to me extensively about his vagoo.”

“Hee hee. Vagoo,” Porthos says, grinning at Aramis. 

“What do you call it, then?” Athos says. 

“Fuckingham palace,” Porthos says. “Tumpsy. Fanjita.”

“You’re not allowed on Google anymore,” Aramis says, shutting the door and going to sit on the bed. “Look, I got you things.”

“Tumpsy,” Athos says, then rests his head on his arm to laugh again. 

Aramis unpacks the tampons, pads, chocolate, smoothie, and then wiggles his eyebrows and pulls the carrier bag off the hot water bottle. Porthos moans and yanks Aramis down for a kiss. 

“I’ll go make this up,” Athos says, taking the hot water bottle. “I’ll take my time. I reckon Aramis is better equipped to help you wanking.”

He goes out, shutting the door firmly. Aramis can hear him laughing on his way down the hall. Porthos pulls at Aramis until he lies down, and then kisses him again. 

“Do you actually want help getting off?” Aramis asks. 

“No. Yes. Dunno. I thought an orgasm might help. I’d prefer chocolate, to be honest,” Porthos says. 

Aramis puts the tampons and pads into the bedside cabinet, and the smoothie on the side. He sits up and unwraps the chocolate bar, breaking it into pieces. Porthos sits up, too, then groans and curls against Aramis's side. 

“It’s dark chocolate, with candied orange peel in it,” Aramis says, feeding Porthos a piece. 

It’s melted in his fingers. Porthos sucks it off, though, getting them clean. He hums, happy, so Aramis gets another bit for him, holding it out.

“Good choice,” Porthos says. 

“I’ve got three different ones. There’s another dark one, with salted almonds, and a milk one with… I can’t remember. Something horribly sweet,” Aramis says, looking for it to check. “Butterscotch. I got you ice-cream, too, with chocolate brownie chunks in it.”

“Bless you,” Porthos says. 

Aramis feeds him half the bar of chocolate, square by square. Porthos sucks it off Aramis’ fingers, laughing between bites, heavy and tired against Aramis’ body. Aramis breaks off another piece, but Porthos shakes his head, wrapping his arms around his middle. Aramis puts all the chocolate away, with the tampons, and pulls Porthos closer, firmly into his arms. 

“Wish Athos’d hurry up with that hottie. My back hurts,” Porthos mumbles, face squished against Aramis’ shoulder. 

As if summoned, Athos knocks perfunctorily on the door then comes in, hottie held out, eyes shut. Aramis tuts and Athos stops the dramatics, coming over to sit the other side of Porthos. He tucks the hottie in and then sits against the headboard. 

“What’s for dinner?” Aramis asks. 

“Take out,” Athos says. “Sylvie got me steamed rice with a vegetable chickeny thing. I don’t know, apparently it’s good for me.”

“Coming running with me would be better,” Porthos says. 

“Alright, let’s go now,” Athos says, shifting as if to get up. 

Porthos groans and flails an arm around until it makes sharp contact with Athos. Then, to Athos and Aramis’ amazement, Porthos wriggles out of Aramis’ arms and gets up, walking purposefully to the wardrobe. 

“Go on and get ready, then,” Porthos says, turning to Athos. “Let’s get a move on. You coming, Aramis?”

“Coming where?” Athos asks. 

“Running,” Porthos says. 

“Oh yeah, this I am definitely going to see,” Aramis says, also getting up. 

Athos grumbles and moans, but eventually slopes off. Porthos grins and winks at Aramis, then starts going through their bags. 

“What are you after?” Aramis asks, pulling out their exercise clothes. 

“Sports bra,” Porthos says. “Can’t wear my binder, can I? Already feeling kind of wheezy.”

Aramis finds it and passes it over, then watches Porthos layer himself up to try and hide his chest a bit. 

“This works better when I’m fatter,” Porthos grumbles, examining himself in the mirror, squashing his chest with his hands. “Moobs are a great invention. I swear it should be on all the FTM forums: get moobs, then no one’ll think anything of these stupid bags of saggy flesh.”

Athos comes back in, then, and Porthos scowls. 

“Or be like Athos, and never grow tits in the first place. So fucking jealous, you flat chested freak,” Porthos says, tugging at Athos’ clothes to try and get a look at his chest. 

“Get off,” Athos says. “I’m not a freak. Stop it.”

“Sorry,” Porthos says, turning his groping into a cuddle. “Come on, Fluff, that was affectionate.”

“I’m not fluffy, either,” Athos says. “You’re fluffy. Look at your poofy hair.”

Porthos snorts, and lets Athos go, and Aramis hands over his trainers. They troop down, Porthos leading, Athos glumly bringing up the rear, Aramis enjoying the show from between them. Constance raises an eyebrow, but Sylvie just rolls her eyes and Anne’s busy with Louis, so they’re not asked for explanations. Aramis almost goes back for his phone, to document what he’s sure is going to be entertaining, but it’s too late now. They’re off.

Porthos sets an easy pace, but starts them off up a hill, towards the crest, through bracken. It’s a rough trail. Aramis is used to cross-country, because that’s how he runs, but he can tell Athos is struggling, more used to a tread-mill. Porthos should be fine, part of his triathlon is cross-country so he’s been running Aramis’ route, but he’s puffed by the time they reach the crest, and stops to cough. Athos flops down into the grass, breathless and lazy and completely uncaring of Porthos’ inevitable rebuke. 

“I…” Porthos says, turning away from Athos, though. “Fuck… can’t… breathe..”

Athos is up on his feet in a moment, and at Porthos’ side. Aramis takes the other and they support him over to a tumble of bricks, helping him sit. 

“Tell me you didn’t forget to bring your inhaler,” Athos demands, patting Porthos’ cheek. 

Porthos grimaces, looking entirely too sheepish for the answer to be anything other than a nod. Aramis is already off running, before Athos calls for him to do so. He leaps back down the hill, taking care not to turn his ankles but otherwise just going hell for leather. He crashes into the kitchen and ignores everyone’s surprise, taking the stairs at a sprint. He scrabbles through their possessions, searching for the stupid little thing. 

“What’s going on?” Constance asks, Sylvie at her back. 

“I can’t find it! That lunatic, idiot, where the hell did he put it? The car. There’s one in the car.”

“It’s in the living room,” Sylvie says, thundering down. 

Aramis follows her, heading for the car. She comes out, though, and presses the inhaler into his hand. He wants to ask how she knew, but he needs to get back. He’s breathless. He needs to go running with Porthos more, too. He leans on his knees, trying to get enough puff. Sylvie watches him for a split second, then takes the inhaler back, bending to pull off her socks. 

“Where?” She says, briskly. 

“Top of the hill,” Aramis says, straightening. 

Bare-foot, shorts, white vest, hair flying, Sylvie runs. She’s fast. Aramis follows, but she soon outsrips him, bounding up the hill as if it’s flat. Aramis trails behind, slower. By the time he arrives, Athos and Sylvie are sat either side of Porthos, holding an arm each. Porthos is leaning into Athos. His lips are faintly blue, and he’s breathing hard, a deep wheeze on each breath out. He takes two more puffs from the inhaler as Aramis arrives. 

“Is it working?” Aramis pants, leaning on his knees again. 

Porthos nods, and gives Sylvie’s hand a squeeze. 

“You’re welcome,” Sylvie says, squeezing back. “Aramis seemed tired, I thought I’d help.”

“Stupid,” Porthos wheezes, eyes sliding closed. 

“No, no. Just a little forgetful,” Aramis assures, crouching in front of Porthos. “Though, you should probably have stopped when you started to get breathless. Oh, you can’t tell, can you? When you’re feeling shit? You get breathless and sweaty and dizzy anyway, don’t you?”

Porthos nods. Aramis considers forbidding him from running in such cases, but instead hugs him, pressing reassuring kisses all over his neck and cheek and eyelids and lips. Porthos coughs into his face, pulling away. His breathing’s easing, though, and he’s pulling in good breaths, air coming out without the awful obstructed noises. 

“No more running,” Athos says, happily. 

“Tomorrow morning,” Porthos whispers. “Need a run, and ‘mis isn’t gonna be up, is he?”

“I could be,” Aramis says. 

“Last time....” Porthos pauses, getting his breath. “Morning run… ran into a lamp post.”

“Oh yeah,” Aramis says, remembering. Well, no, he remembers the thunk and remembers walking home, Porthos’ bandanna pressed to his bleeding head. “Not much use in the mornings.”

“I’ll come running with you,” Sylvie says. “I’m a morning person.”

“She is,” Athos agrees, sounding both terribly fond about that and terribly grumpy. “She rises with the lark.”

“Who’s she? The cat’s mother?” Sylvie says. “Come on, Porthos, let’s get you on your feet and moving toward home. Aramis and Athos can finish the run for you.”

Sylvie gets up, then glares. Aramis realises she’s not joking. She expects him and Athos to run off. Athos opens his mouth, then seems to catch sight of her face. He nods, and drags Aramis off. They go on a run that takes them around to the pool they lunched at, and back along the beach. Aramis has no idea why. He’s sweaty, tired, and breathless when they trudge up the cliff path. 

Everyone’s in the conservatory, so they go in the back way. Constance calls a laughing complaint about the smell of them, and Anne sends them upstairs to shower. Aramis pauses to give Porthos, lying on one of the sofas, head in Sylvie’s lap, a betrayed look. Porthos is busy dozing and doesn’t notice a thing, so Aramis has to just go shower. 

d’Artagnan arrives before Aramis finishes getting changed. Aramis hears Athos crashing down the stairs and calling a greeting, and d’Artagnan’s enthusiastic reply, and then Louis. Aramis pulls his pyjamas on quickly and goes to join them. He nearly falls over Porthos, sat on the stairs. Aramis sits beside him. 

“Are you okay?” Aramis asks.

“Sylvie stayed with me. She’s really gentle,” Porthos says. 

Aramis hadn’t associated Sylvie with gentleness before, but that might be just that she’s not particularly gentle with him. 

“And why are we sitting on the stairs?” Aramis asks. 

“I said hi, then ran out of energy. I feel ill,” Porthos says. “Can we go upstairs? Lie down? With the hottie, and the elephant, and you can feed me some more chocolate. It helps the cramps.”

“Alright,” Aramis soothes, quieting his voice, rubbing over Porthos’ hunched shoulders. “Alright, go on up. Is the hottie up there?”

“In the conservatory.”

“I’ll re-heat it, and say hi to d’Artagnan, and goodnight to Louis.”

Porthos trails up the stairs. Aramis does as he promised, though not in that order. Everyone’s in the kitchen with him by the time he’s done the hotty. He goes to press a kiss to Louis’ head, then lingers, stroking his curls. Louis looks up at him and smiles, reaching out. Aramis lifts him into a hug and gives him a good goodnight, cuddling him. 

“See you guys in the morning,” Aramis says, then leaves them, setting Louis back on the chair he was colouring from. 

He goes up the stairs to Porthos. He’s curled over the covers, naked from the waist up, just a pair of boxers. His eyes are shut and he’s curled miserably around himself. Aramis sits against the headboard and at once Porthos gets himself into Aramis’ arms. Aramis presses the hotty to his back and strokes his hair. 

“My stomach hurts, my back hurts, I feel fucking disgusting, and now my chest hurts,” Porthos grumbles. 

“You’re very handsome. Breasts can be masculine. You know that.”

“They’re sore, from binding when I’m sensitive,” Porthos says, rubbing over his breast. “And the asthma thing. Gentle exercise helps, but I can’t walk because I’m tired and there’s no adrenaline in it, and now I can’t fucking run either, apparently.”

“Would an orgasm help? We’ve done it before, gently and carefully. Or some chocolate?”

“Chocolate,” Porthos says, shifting until he’s resting against Aramis’ chest, mostly upright. 

Aramis gets the chocolate out and breaks another bar up, feeding pieces of it to Porthos, Porthos’ lips warm around his fingers. His breathing’s still a little off, a gentle wheeze on the end. Aramis listens, but leaves Porthos alone, just making sure the inhaler’s here and close by. 

“Is there anything else I can do?” Aramis asks. “Do you want a backrub? That sometimes helps.”

“Nah. I’ll just eat this, then nap.”

Aramis grins and takes the hint, giving Porthos another piece of chocolate. Porthos licks over Aramis’ fingers, this time, tipping his head up, pressing a kiss to Aramis’ wrist. 

“Enough?” Aramis asks. 

“Mm. Of that,” Porthos says, kissing Aramis’ neck. 

“Orgasms after all?” 

“No. I just want to kiss you,” Porthos says, humming, doing as he says. 

His lips against Aramis’ skin feel good, so Aramis reciprocates. They tangle together, Aramis doing his best to make Porthos tingly without properly arousing him, take his mind off his frustration and pain. It seems to work. Porthos lies, eyes shut, lips parted, and hums while Aramis explores his body. When Aramis lies with him, Porthos nuzzles close, and soon he’s asleep. 

~fin~


End file.
